When some time had elapsed, and no more carriages appeared, Malcolm, judging the dinner must now be in full vortex, rang the bell of the front door. It was opened by a huge footman, whose head was so small in proportion that his body seemed to have absorbed it. Malcolm would have stepped in at once, and told what of his tale he chose at his leisure; but the servant, who had never seen the dress Malcolm wore, except on street-beggars, with the instinct his class shares with watch-dogs, quickly closed the door. Ere it reached the post, however, it found Malcolm’s foot between. “Go along, Scotchy. You’re not wanted here,” said the man, pushing the door hard. “Police is round the corner.” Now one of the weaknesses Malcolm owed to his Celtic blood was an utter impatience of rudeness. In his own nature entirely courteous, he was wrathful even to absurdity at the slightest suspicion of insult. But that, in part through the influence of Mr Graham, the schoolmaster, he had learned to keep a firm hold on the reins of action, this foolish feeling would not unfrequently have hurried him into conduct undignified. On the present occasion, I fear the main part of his answer, but for the shield of the door, would have been a blow to fell a bigger man than the one that now glared at him through the shoe-broad opening. As it was, his words were fierce with suppressed wrath. “Open the door, an’ lat me in,” was, however, all he said. “What’s your business?” asked the man, on whom his tone had its effect. “My business is with my Lady Lossie,” said Malcolm, recovering his English, which was one step towards mastering, if not recovering, his temper. “You can’t see her. She’s at dinner.” “Let me in, and I’ll wait. I come from Lossie House.” “Take away your foot and I’ll go and see,” said the man. “No. You open the door,” returned Malcolm. The man’s answer was an attempt to kick his foot out of the doorway. If he were to let in a tramp, what would the butler say? But thereupon Malcolm set his port-vent to his mouth, rapidly filled his bag, while the man stared as if it were a petard with which he was about to blow the door to shivers, and then sent from the instrument such a shriek, as it galloped off into the Lossie Gathering, that involuntarily his adversary pressed both hands to his ears. With a sudden application of his knee Malcolm sent the door wide, and entered the hall, with his pipes in full cry. The house resounded with their yell--but only for one moment. For down the stair, like bolt from catapult, came Demon, Florimel’s huge Irish stag-hound, and springing on Malcolm, put an instant end to his music. The footman laughed with exultation, expecting to see him torn to pieces. But when instead he saw the fierce animal, a foot on each of his shoulders, licking Malcolm’s face with long fiery tongue, he began to doubt. “The dog knows you,” he said sulkily.